I'm Listening
by Valerie E. Mackin
Summary: Connor's pissed off, and she's not sure how to handle the situation. She learns a few things about the boys, and now she doesn't quite know where they stand. Follow-up of sorts to "Listen Closely." 8th in my Boondock Saints OC arc. Rated M for smut, language...you know, the usual stuff you get from me.


_Author's Note: I know I don't normally start with these, but I realized I forgot to thank a very awesome person. Without Rhanon Brodie (author of some ridiculously fabulous Boondock Saints things herself), this story would not have gotten off the ground in more ways than one. Completely forgot to mention that in the actual Author's Note at the bottom, so, hey, you get one all your own at the very top! You're awesome, and everyone should go check out your stuff. Now, allons-y!_

I rarely argue with the boys. For one thing, we just don't tend to disagree very often. For another, once either of them has their mind set on something, it takes an act of the Almighty to change their decisions, and I mean that almost literally.

Picture throwing a bucket of water at the incoming tide to try and change its direction.

McGinty's is fairly deserted tonight, so much so that Doc has actually switched on the television set for a change. As it's time for the news, I could have told him this would be a bad idea, but I keep my thoughts to myself since no one else is objecting.

The anchorman delivers bad news after more bad news: drugs, murder, robbery, arson. It's like a variety pack of Shitty Things That Happen in Boston. Sally McBride is on scene at the arson case, and just to make the story fun for the whole family, it's a local nursing home that's been burned down. By the time the next show comes on, everyone is either depressed or pissed.

Guess which one Connor's picked.

"Fuckin' stupid, that's what it is. There's no fuckin' point to all this bullshit!"

I'm a little taken back by the vehemence behind his outburst. Murphy calls out his agreement, but his words come out far less organized and far more slurred. Granted, he's had quite a bit more to drink tonight than his brother, so I suppose his incoherency is understandable.

Connor doesn't seem to be losing any steam, though. On the contrary, the more he rants the more pissed he seems to get. I've never seen him this angry, and I'm starting to feel a tad anxious.

I've seen both the MacManuses in action in bar fights before, and I seriously pity anyone who thinks it's a good idea to start brawls with them. If someone says the wrong thing to Connor tonight, I don't think the Emergency Room would be too far of a stretch, and that's never good.

I clear my throat and reach out a tentative but steady hand. Though it might be overly wary of me, I tend to treat angry men the same way I treat angry animals: carefully, cautiously, and calmly.

My fingers rest gently on his shoulder, and I can feel his muscles tense at my touch even through the fabric of his shirt.

"Connor…do you want to head out now? Maybe get some air?"

His eyes flash to mine, and I'm taken aback by the fierce bitterness I see there. Something's really set him off tonight, but all we've done is sit at the bar and watch the news. Is he really that pissed over the same depressing shit we see every single day?

Then the look is gone, and he lets out a slow, deep breath.

"Aye, lass. Not doin' much good sittin' here getting' more pissed off. Murph, ye done yet?"

But Murphy is deep in conversation with Rocco, and they wave us off with the briefest of good-byes. Ever the gentleman, Connor holds my coat while I shrug it on, and we set off into the chilly Boston night. The temperature is dropping fast (it's much colder than when we got here), but the chill I'm getting isn't from the cold weather.

"So, did something else tick you off tonight, or was it just the news?"

"Th' news weren't enough for ye?" Connor snaps. Apparently he needs a little more air.

I stare at him silently, unwilling to take the bait. I've been in conversations like this before (never with Connor, though), and I refuse to be made into a verbal punching bag. In past confrontations, I've learned the safest course of action is usually to wait and let the person get to what's bothering them on their own.

He stops walking suddenly, hands fisted at his side, his jaw tight and clenched. Even in the dim streetlight I can see his face is redder than normal, and his nostrils are flaring. Worst of all, the vein in the middle of his forehead (the one that stands out so much when he's under pressure) is practically popping out of his skin; for a brief second, I almost imagine I can see it pulsing from here.

The anxiety I felt back at McGinty's ratchets up a couple of notches now. I have no idea what to do.

"Connor, I—"

"I'm not mad at ye, lass," he growls through clenched teeth. "I just…th' fuckin'…how can ye just sit there all passive and not be pissed off about all that shit on th' news every day?!"

"Hang on, you said you weren't pissed at me. Where the hell is this coming from?"

He screws his eyes shut, one fist rubbing his forehead hard, apparently trying to keep himself under control. He's doing a rather shitty job at the moment.

"All that shit…people bein' murdered on th'street…kids gettin' sold drugs on school property. A nursin' home gets burned down 'cause th'assholes couldn't find enough drugs in there t'make their fuckin' robbery worth the trouble…How are ye never affected by it? D'ye not even fuckin' care?"

If there were crickets nearby, we'd hear them right about now. I mean, how am I supposed to respond to that?

Even though we're less than half a block from the boys' loft, I turn on my heel and furiously stalk back towards McGinty's. I've done absolutely nothing wrong, and while I know Connor wouldn't normally lash out at me like this (i.e. something else is bothering him), he's got no right to talk to me like that, and I'm not going to stand there and wait for him to do it again.

"Lass, wait! Don't go, a'right?" His footsteps pound the sidewalk behind me until he's caught up, and his hand catches at my elbow. Spinning around, I snatch my arm away and glare fiery death at Connor.

"Don't. Fucking. Touch. Me." The words ring solidly through the chill air between us, quiet and cutting. Despite the cold, my face is flaming with embarrassment and anger.

"What—"

I cut him off, though. After that outburst, I'm not really inclined to listen to anything he has to say at the moment.

"You're an asshole, Connor. I don't know what your damage is, but you have no right to talk to me like that. What the hell did I do to you? Not a damn thing, and you know it." I stop there, hearing my voice get louder and a little shriller with each word.

One breath, let it out. When I start again, my voice is quieter and under control.

"Not even a month ago you sat me down in a restaurant, grilled me about one small emotional outburst, and you proceeded to make me feel like an ass for failing to simply talk to you about what was wrong. And now you pull this?"

"I didn't—"

"I don't care, Connor. I've already been in a relationship like that, and I have to tell you, one was enough. I don't feel like sticking around and watching this one turn into a copy of it. I'm tired. I'm going home. Call me when you've pulled your head out of your ass with an apology attached." I turn away from him, but he pulls me back around again.

"Ye can't go home by yerself, not at this time o'night!"

"Then I'll go get Murphy or Rocco to take me home, because I'm sure as hell not going anywhere with you right now. Fuck off, Connor." The words are delivered almost monotone. A lot of the anger has drained out, replaced with hurt and just a touch of regret. I'm exhausted, and this is the last thing I want to deal with tonight. Never even figured it was in the cards, really.

"Lass, please, just…just wait." His voice is almost as tired as mine, and there's something new there, something I can't place. Can anger be sad? Disappointed? May the God of Intelligent Decisions forgive me, I actually listen to him. I'm hoping very hard I don't regret this decision.

He's silent for so long I almost give up and leave, but eventually he speaks. His eyes are fastened on the sidewalk, his hands shoved deep in his pockets, and I wouldn't really be surprised if he starts scuffing his toe on the ground.

"I know I shouldn't have snapped at ye like that, girl. Ye didn't deserve anythin' o'th'sort. It was beyond stupid an' rude, an' ye have me most sincere apologies. I _will_ make it up to ye."

"Okay. That's definitely a start. Apology and promise accepted. Now keep talking." Just because he's been unreasonable doesn't mean I have to be as well. Besides, I really don't _want_ to walk away from Connor.

He steals a glance at me to make sure I'm being sincere, and there's a tiny bit of relief and humor in the lines around his eyes. He looks so…weighed down. That's what I couldn't figure out before.

"Seriously, Connor, what's wrong? You're the one who told me to just talk to you if I have issues. You can't live by your own code?"

He sighs and offers me his hand cautiously as if he's afraid I'll rip it off or something. "Yer right; o'course yer right, only can we go back to th'flat like we were goin' to an' talk there? Please?"

I eye him suspiciously. "_You're_ the one who snapped on _me_…why are _you_ so nervous all of a sudden?"

The tiniest of smiles turns up the corners of his lips. "Murph warned me about yer temper, lass. I'd like t'make it through th'night with me limbs attached and intact, so I figured some caution might be in order, as I've already pissed ye off."

Seems legit.

Eight minutes later finds us seated on one of the boys' raggedy sofas, surrounded by a tense, uncomfortable silence. I'm sitting sideways on the couch, arms around my legs with my chin resting on my knees as I face Connor.

"I don't rightly know where t'start, lass." He's leaning forward with his fingers gripping his hair as if he can pull the answers right out of his scalp. Though I've sincerely accepted his apology, I still have to stifle a snarky reply when it tries to pop out. He's trying; I suppose he deserves a _little_ credit.

"Why don't you start with what pissed you off today?"

"That's the thing, girl, it ain't just t'day that's—"

I cut him off before he gets too worked up again. "Just start with today. I know for a fact that you had a decent wake-up call, as I was responsible for it, so something must've happened today to get you more worked up than usual."

He attempts a bit of a smile at the mention of my…unique alarm system from that morning, but the smile is gone before it's even established. He holds his arm out to me, a sad and hopeful look on his face. I figure he's suffered enough, so I allow myself to be pulled in and wrapped in his arms.

Even slightly pissed off, this is one of the two best places in the world to be.

"Everybody was sittin' around th'break room at lunch t'day, talkin' mostly like usual, but it was quieter, not as relaxed as always 'tis. Bunch o'the girls were down at one end of th'room, talkin' all hushed like, an' Murph gets it in his head he's gonna find out what they're chattin' about, like it's some big gossipy secret an' he's just gotta know."

I listening without interrupting; I figured he'll answer any questions I have eventually, and I shouldn't interrupt while he's on a roll. It sounds about right so far anyway; Murphy doesn't like being left out of loops. Makes sense that he'd want to charm his way into their conversation.

"About fifteen minutes later, he comes back lookin' fit t'be tied. Has t'go out an' smoke fer near ten minutes for he can come back an' work. I couldn't even get him t'tell me what was wrong 'til we got home."

Connor shifts, his arm tightening around me. I lean over until my head is resting on his chest, listening to his steady heartbeat under my ear.

"One of th'girls from work, Mary Callahan…you met her at McGinty's over Fourth of July, remember her?"

I rack my brain and come up with a vague memory of a cheerful, thirties-ish woman with the most amazing, insanely curly hair I've ever seen.

"Awesome hair, twin girls, super nice? Recently single at the time?"

He nods. "Aye, that's her. She went out fer somethin' last night, somethin' one o'her girls needed fer school. She got jumped in th'fuckin' street on th'way home. She didn't have enough money nor valuables on her t'make it worth their time, so the fuckin' assholes just beat th'shit out of her. She didn't even put up a fight, just begged 'em t'let her get home t'her girls. Broken jaw, broken ribs, broken wrist, lost some teeth even. Her face…Jesus…"

The last word comes out in one long exhalation, then his jaw clenches as if it refuses to let anything else out. He's shaking, and I don't know what to do, so I hold him tighter and wait him out. I know he's got more to say. After a few minutes, he relaxes just a fraction and starts up again.

"So we're at McGinty's, an' Doc turns on th'news…All that shit, th'same shit every fuckin' day, an y'know one o'the worst parts about t'night?" He doesn't wait for an answer, doesn't even pause to breathe.

"Everything else that happened in Boston t'day was so absolutely fucked up that th'fact that a mother o'two's life just got pretty much screwed over doesn't even register on the shit meter. Didn't even rank on th'news. Beat near t'death, her girls can't even live with her right now 'cause she's gonna be in hospital fer Christ knows how long."

He lapses into silence again, and I think he might've gotten most of it off his chest. I'm just about to ask him something when he looks up at me, a torn expression on his face.

"I swear I'm not meanin' t'jump on ye again, girl, I know it was shit for me t'do that before, but I just gotta know. Ye never seem t'get angry at th'news, never comment on it, ye never say it bothers ye or nothin' like that…I know ye care, I shouldn't've acted like ye didn't, but…I just…I don't understand…how…"

He trails off, unsure of where he wants to take the question. I have a rare moment of clarity where I realize that this is probably a turning point of sorts in our relationship, one of those rare, important moments that only comes up every now and then, like the question of whether to get married or whether to have kids or move to New York for that job offer.

"Connor, there's something you have to understand about me, about us." I'm speaking slowly, trying to gather my thoughts on the run. If ever there was a time for truth between us, this would be it.

"We've grown up very differently, me compared to you and Murphy. I didn't have the strict upbringing of right and wrong and that sort of thing that I'm pretty sure you did. I've had to work most of it out for myself by watching the shit that happens around me."

He opens his mouth, but I hold my hand up. "Hang on, just let me finish, then I'll answer anything you want. What I do know is that there are some things that are right or wrong depending entirely on who's looking at it. But there are some things that are wrong no matter who you are and why you do it. That much I do understand."

I've run out of words, but I know I still haven't answered his question. For once, he lets me sit and think. I haven't ever really forced myself to think so deeply about this issue before, and it's not pleasant.

"It's not that I don't care about the things on the news, about all the horrible stuff that happens that doesn't even make the news. It's not that I don't think it's wrong and horrible, because I really, really do. I guess it's that I feel like if I actively and openly care about some of it, I'll have to actively and openly care about all of it, and I don't think I could handle that. I mean, you see how I get when I watch movies with sad endings. Hell, look how I get at movies with happy endings. I cry at everything, Connor."

He studies my face a long time, but I don't feel like I can quite meet his eyes. He's got such conviction, so much surety, that my own issues seem petty in comparison. I'm ashamed when I feel the tears well up behind my eyes, but I just manage to hold them back.

It's too much: finding out someone you actually know nearly got beaten to death, one of the two men you trust most in your life jumping down your throat, and then gut-wrenching, semi-humiliating confessions that could potentially ruin the best thing that's happened to you…I just wanted to have a couple of drinks tonight and go to bed.

"I think I get what yer sayin', lass. I shouldn't've jumped on ye, an' I'm so sorry. I know ye better than that."

I scrub at my eyes with the back of my hand, taking a stranglehold on my emotions before they get the better of me.

"I'm just glad you asked this time instead of shouting the neighborhood down. I would've just told you to begin with if you hadn't been such an idiot." We sit in silence for a while longer until a question pops in my head.

"Is that why Murphy was drinking so hard tonight? Because of Mary?"

"Aye, that's what he was talkin' to Rocco about when we were leavin'. Tryin' t'see if he's heard anythin' about a pair o'street scum workin' t'gether anywhere nearby, related robberies an' such."

I glance up sharply. "Why? So you guys can go take them down or something?

"Well, somebody's gotta fuckin' do somethin'!" He's up so fast I'm nearly thrown to the floor. "The cops either can't do shit about it, or they just won't. Either way, there's no fuckin' reason all this fucked up shit should keep happenin' when there's people out there who can do somethin' about it!"

He barely pauses to breathe, pacing hard and fast around the room.

"Most of th'time, th' cops know who pulls shit in this town; they just can't do anythin' 'cause they don't fuckin' have hard evidence or probable cause or some other red tape bullshit. Somebody should just…_do somethin'_ about it."

I wait until his circuit brings him to my side of the room again, and I stand and gently catch his arm. He tenses under my hand, and his breathing is fast and agitated. I touch his flushed face with my other hand and bring him around so I can look him in the eyes.

"Someone like who?" I ask gently. "You? Murphy? The Incredible Fighting Irish?"

He snorts, lets out the rest of his air, and seems to deflate a little. I gather him into my arms, and he buries his face in my shoulder. I've never seen him like this, and all I can think to do is hold him and keep talking.

"I have no doubt that you and Murphy could easily beat the shit out of every low life in Boston and still have some righteous Irish justice left over to take down half of New York City as well." I shift, standing him back up, and place a small kiss on the end of his nose.

"But let's face it, if you two were super heroes, you'd be caught in under a month. You and I both know stealth and subtlety are not your and Murphy's strong suits when you're pissed. Tonight for example."

"Besides," I say as I turn to the fridge, hoping for something decent to drink, "you think I'd be fine just sitting at home waiting for you two? I'd end up being one of those girls straight out of the movies who runs off to help you two and ends up getting caught and kidnapped. Short of basic first aid I have absolutely no marketable super skills to bring to the table."

As I reach for the handle Connor catches my wrist, spinning me around and pinning my back to the fridge.

"What—"

"Thought ye said I couldn't be sneaky, lass. Seems ye weren't expectin' that…took ye by surprise, did I?"

Oh, for Pete's sake.

"No, you literal-minded idiot, I said you didn't have subtlety or stealth when you're angry. There's a difference. Now let me go!"

He considers this a moment, eyeing me seriously as I try to squirm from his grip.

"Nah."

"What? Why? Dammit, let me go Connor!"

"Well, fer one thing, ye've insulted me super abilities." He leans in, running his stubbly chin over the bare skin of my neck and shoulder. My traitorous nerve cells immediately go on red alert, and I am sorely displeased with myself for allowing a breathy little moan past my lips. His ego does _not_ need any more boosting.

"Fer another thing, ye've insulted me plannin' abilities, thinkin' me an' Murph'd get caught so quick. Ye should have more faith in yer men."

He's brushing his lips in a slow, burning trail up my neck and along my jaw, and the heat stays long after his lips have moved on.

"Finally, an' this really is th'worst part, ye insulted m'girl and her set o'skills. I happen t'think she's got a rather nice set o'skills that I enjoy fairly often, an' ye've no right to shame them like that."

I want to melt into his touch, to just drop my head back and let him have his way. I know he's up to something, though, and I put both my hands on his chest and try to shove him off me. He's like an oven-heated brick wall.

Oh, I have so already lost this battle.

He doesn't even look up from my neck as he snatches my wrists with his hands, pinning them to the fridge by my sides. His lips ghost across mine, never staying still long enough to let me properly kiss him.

I'm frozen in place for nearly two minutes of his teasing kisses as he covers everywhere from my neck to my lips and down the other side. I don't think my heart rate can take much more, and I strain hard against his hands, trying to pull away even though I know my struggling is useless.

"Connor, you're killing me! Shouldn't you owing me for your unnecessary outburst cancel out whatever you're going to do for 'insulting' you, which by the way, I don't personally feel I did anyway?"

He considers my argument for a full ten seconds before a wicked smirk creeps across his face.

Shit.

"Y'know, y really shouldn't mix everything up t'gether, ye lose th'individual flavors that way. I think I'll keep 'em nice an' separate, if ye don't mind."

"Actually, now that you mention it, Connor, I kind of do mi—"

He pulls me forward before I can finish protesting, spinning me around and pulling my back so hard against him that a little "oof" of air is knocked from my lungs. Seriously he's like a slab of granite.

Unfortunately for me, he still has a hold of my wrists when he turns me around which results in my arms crossed in front of me and my hands —_still_—stuck at my sides. Connor leans over my shoulder, admiring the view created by my crossed arms pushing up my cleavage.

Sigh.

"Now what," he says, pausing to run his tongue slowly up the rim of my ear before continuing, "should I do with ye now, lass?"

I shiver and my answer comes out wobbly and not at all sure of itself.

"Either take me within an inch of my existence or let me go so I can get some sleep before I have to be at work tomorrow?"

He doesn't bother answering me with words but instead busies himself leaving a mark on my neck that will ensure I either spend fifteen extra minutes on cover-up in the morning or I wear a scarf all day at work.

_Again_.

"Dammit, Connor, another one?"

I can feel his smile against the delicious ache of the forming bruise.

"I did warn ye it's goin' t'be different flavors t'night. Ain't th'last yer gonna get of that from me, either." His promise is delivered in a low, heated growl against my ear, and any other protests I might have die in my throat to the tune of a needy, whining moan.

The next half hour is one of the longest, hottest, most tortured of my life. Connor touches me everywhere, kisses me, bites me and leaves more bruises. Heavy petting is an understatement. He has me panting and moaning after the first five minutes. He has me begging after twelve. But he never removes a stitch of my clothing.

We're on the couch again when he finally just…stops. Somewhere around minute twenty-five or twenty-six I moved from pleading to cursing him soundly, and he's actually laughing at me as he switches on the TV.

It takes me a full minute to regain the process of connecting coherent thoughts to my mouth.

"Are you fucking kidding me?"

He's still laughing, but I know he's left himself just as worked up as me. I can literally see the evidence.

"Not worried about blue balls or anything? Don't you even care whether you're going to make me stroke out or not? You're just going to stop like that?"

He nods, corner of his mouth twitching. He keeps his eyes locked on the western he's found on the television.

"So this is your big revenge? You're going to leave me high and dry? What about making up for being a jerk?"

"Figured I'd give ye a nice send-off t'work tomorrow like ye did fer me t'day."

"Hang on, I need to get this straight in my head, because I seriously might be on crack right now. You think getting me strung up and tense and then having morning sex is a good way to say you're sorry for being a jerk? Like, in this version of reality?"

"Yep."

Alright…moving on.

"And what's to stop a drunk and incredibly horny Murphy who's coming home at some point tonight from helping me out since you're being so _nice_?"

"First of all, I'll be more than happy t'show ye nice first thing in th'mornin', lass. Second, ye insulted _his_ super powers and girlfriend as well, an' he ain't got nothin' t'make up for with ye. All I have t'do is tell him what ye said, an' I'm fairly sure he'll be on my side."

You rat bastard.

"I'm going to sleep." I can't keep the grump from my tone, and he lets out a sharp bark of laughter before quickly composing himself. As sure as he is of his plan, I think he's still afraid of pissing me off too much.

I switch the lights off around the loft until the only illumination comes from the few working streetlights outside and the television set. I undress quickly in the chill air and wrap myself in the blanket, turning my back on Connor and whatever John Wayne Movie of the Week is playing tonight.

He and the Duke can fucking have each other. I don't need him.

"Fine," I mutter, more to myself than him. "I don't need you to take care of this problem. I can handle it myself." He's definitely left me wet and wanting enough for me to be able to take care of myself no problem. I've just run my fingers across my thigh when my wrist is caught and something hot and hard is pressed against my back.

Connor's breath is scalding and heavy and growling right against my ear. "There's no need t'take that sorta attitude, lass…ye could've just asked nicely."

Before I can answer he flips me onto my stomach, pinning my arms over my head. He runs his fingers (I don't think I've blessed calluses so much in my life before now) agonizingly slowly down my already over-sensitized back, and I'm arching involuntarily against his roughened touch. I can feel his hands between us, then he's pressed down the length of me. He bucks hard against me just once, then he's inside me, then…oh…and then…

Connor rips the blanket from between us and pulls me onto my knees. He rocks hard against me, knocking the wind from me, then slowly pulls out again.

"Tell me how ye want it, girl." He jerks my hips back again, and my breath catches in my throat. "Gonna make up fer earlier." He pulls out even more slowly this time.

"Just…tell…me…what…ye…want." He punctuates each word with either a back or a forward motion until I've completely lost my sense of which way is up.

_Oh, God, Connor, I just want you._

"Start—" Oh, concentrate. Concentrate. I remember speech, I can do this. "Start slow, finish…hard enough…to….leave…oh…please…you know..."

And he does; oh, does he ever.

I almost don't make it through the slow build-up, but I just manage to hang on by a thread. His hands are roaming all over me, stroking that spot between my shoulder blades, squeezing my hips hard enough to leave finger marks.

I can feel him shuddering, barely keeping his own rhythm, and his breathing is ragged and desperate. He shouldn't have teased me so much, he knows it gets to him as much as it does to me.

Oh, who am I kidding? I'm a fucking candle to this man's blow torch.

"Connor, please…Need…now…"

"Touch yerself, girl. I'll take care of ye, just…help me out a little."

The angle is awkward, but I just manage to wriggle around enough to slip my hand into the right spot. Connor's thrusts are almost driving me into the floor now, but my fingers manage to find his rhythm, and it's not long before I'm seeing stars.

I don't scream when the first wave hits. The air is locked in my lungs, and it's as if all my muscles are frozen by some sort of climax-induced electrical current. I can barely make any noise at all. I swear I'm almost vibrating.

Connor's hands dig painfully into my hips, and he lets out a low, jagged groan as he stiffens behind me. After a few moments of shuddering and hoarse breathing on both sides, Connor finally pants, "Christ, girl, I should hold out on ye more often."

"Lord's name, and if you try it you'll end up bloodier than Murphy the last time he pissed me off."

"Dunno if that's such a bad thing; he seemed t'enjoy it, after all."

Connor pulls the blanket over the two of us, and I tangle myself contentedly around him. As my head settles against his shoulder, I realize something.

"You did that whole fucking routine on purpose, didn't you? You planned the entire thing from when you pinned me to the fridge! There's no way you would've lasted all night, I know you better than that."

A low, menacing chuckle is the only answer I get as his hand snakes southward.

An hour later, I still can't sleep. I have a double shift starting first thing in the morning, so _of course_ I can't sleep. Sighing, I resort to my old standby and bundle up in some of the boys' heavier, warmer clothing and climb out on the fire escape.

I haven't been this restless in a while, and I'm pretty sure it's all tied back to our conversation. I mean, I do my best not to be an asshole and make other people's lives worse, but Connor has a point. Is it enough to just not contribute to the bad stuff, or do I need to actively try to remove it?

Seriously, what could _I_ possibly do to help?

After several minutes, I'm sick of self-bashing and rehashing the damn conversation. My body is sore (but pleasantly so), my brain is exhausted, and all I want to do is sleep. Since that obviously isn't happening, I'm going to do the next best thing and force myself to think about absolutely nothing at all. So I do.

And it's wonderful.

Time passes, I'm not sure how long, but it's still closer to late than early when I hear the door protesting and the unmistakable noises of Murphy shuffling in. He calls my name, so I lean towards the window.

"Out here."

I can hear him grumbling curses about crazy women and cold air, but after a lengthy amount of fumbling and scuffling, I'm surprised when he joins me on the fire escape. I'm even more surprised when he drags his blanket out with him. I can tell he's still buzzed, but he's not nearly as drunk as when Connor and I left him at the bar.

"You switch to Kaliber after we left or something?"

"Naw," he mumbles, settling down next to me and pulling the blanket around us. "Just didn't drink much more after. Sobered up a bit. Didn't seem right t'get too tanked t'night. Had some things t'talk about with Rocco, anyway."

The last part catches my attention. "Speaking of, Connor told me about that. Are you guys seriously going to go hunting for thugs? Like, real life vigilante-style?"

Murphy shrugs and draws me closer. His heat envelops me, multiplied by the blanket, and it's a welcome contrast to the frosty air blowing past the building.

"Just an idea we're tossin' around. Not smart t'go off half-cocked into somethin' like that. 'Sides," he adds as he burrows his cool face between my neck and my hair, "Roc hasn't heard anythin' anyway, so it's not like we've got a lead."

A thrill of trepidation runs down my spine, and I shiver. Murphy pulls me even closer, and his lips find the back of my neck.

"We could just go inside, if yer cold."

"I'm not that cold now, it's just that when you and Connor start talking about all this horrible stuff, especially now that you've started up on this actually 'doing something' kick, I've got this weird, nervous feeling in my gut."

He doesn't answer, just puts his arms around me from behind and takes both my hands in his. He gazes at our interlaced fingers with his chin resting on my shoulder, scratching my neck with his two-day old stubble. It's an odd mirror of earlier with Connor, but being with Murphy is always so different there's barely any comparison, and I shrugs off the thought. We sit like that for a while, and despite the gnawing worry in the pit of my stomach, it's nice. It's peaceful.

"What would ye do if we went after those guys?" It's not a loaded question, I can tell from his tone. He really wants to know what I think, and it's nice to know that he cares enough to ask and listen.

"I suppose I'd wait anxiously at home with bandages and needle and thread. Or, alternatively, I could wait at McGinty's with the same plus shots. I'm afraid I wouldn't be much use otherwise. Haven't really had a lot of combat training, as it were. What about you two? A bunch of secret ninja-type skills I don't know about?"

He's quiet for long enough that I think he's taken my questions for the horrible jokes they are. Never in a million years would I dream he'd have actual answers, and what he does say is more than a bit of a shock.

"Aye, a bit. Picked up a few things back home 'fore we came over to th'states. Can handle a gun, an' ye've seen us take care of ourselves in fights. We're not Steven Segal or Van Damme or any of those guys from Connor's movies, but we're not too shabby."

So you wake up one day and find out your boyfriends have vigilante aspirations with a handful of actual action hero skills thrown in. Typical day in Southie, yeah?

I rack my brain, trying to fathom what an appropriate response to Murphy's revelations might possibly be. His face is turned to mine, gauging my expression, and he nudges my cheek with the tip of his nose.

"Ye alright there, girl?"

"Yeah, I just…huh. Do you guys own guns, as well? I mean, I've never seen them around, but I don't suppose it's something you'd just keep out on the table next to the ashtray. Or maybe it is, I don't know, I don't know if I've ever known anyone who owns a gun. Or slept with someone or someones who own guns. Or maybe I have…I mean, really, if it's the sort of thing you don't just open with on the first date, not that you and I ever had a first date, or me and Connor for that matter, we just had sex one night all of a sudden. Like you and me, just one night all of a sudden…Wow…I'm kind of a slut."

The words pour out in a non-stop flow, like something with vital filtering capabilities has disconnected between my brain and my vocal cords. I'm really only partially aware of what I'm even saying. Then one of Murphy's fingers goes over my lips, and I can feel the vibrations of his laughter against my back.

"Calm down, lass, ye ain't a slut, an' yer fine, nothin' t'freak out over. Connor an' me are th'same as we've been this whole time, there's just a couple of things ye didn't know about us is all. Bet there's a few things we still don't know about you. Just found out only last week what kinda temper ye got buried in ye. Didn't see that one coming."

"Yeah, but my secrets tend to be of the 'I keep some Playgirls in the nightstand, and I sing in the shower where no one has to listen to me' variety. I don't know five ways to kill a man in his sleep."

"Neither do we. Maybe one or two, but those involve guns and silencers. An' it's not like we've ever done anythin' like that before. Only assholes we've injured are the ones who thought it was a good idea t'start somethin' with us first. Never killed anybody, don't really plan on startin' anytime soon, if that's what's botherin' ye."

So it's not just during sex that Murphy can read my mind. Just hearing him say out loud what I was hoping actually does make me feel a lot better, although there's a heaping scoop of embarrassment over my blithering outburst.

"Want to try sleep again, or ye need t'stay out here a while longer?"

"Depends. Can I talk you into a bit of a massage? I'm kind of sore and stiff from sitting out here so long."

Murphy stands and offers me a hand, pulling me quickly to my feet. "Sure. Want me t'start with yer neck or yer shoulders?"

I lean forward and hold on to the railing, stretching my sore tailbone out behind me as Murphy watches. "Neither. And I don't know if sleep is in the cards anytime soon. This may need to be a rather intensive massage. Deep tissue, even"

Fingers snake around my hipbones, jerking me back against my second hot brick wall of the night.

"Think I can handle that."

_Author's Note: Okay, this is really random, but I thought someone might ask. Kaliber is Guinness's non-alcoholic beer. I had to actually do a tiny bit of research for the one. Okay, on to the note itself. Coming up next, unless someone does something again to give me random awesome ideas for unplanned stories *cough*RhanonBrodie*cough*, I've got my first multi-chapter thing coming up. There's two separate stories, a short multi-chapter lead-up, then a longer (but not long) multi-chapter finisher. Not a finisher to the arc, mind you, just to that set. Two story sets, that's me. Then I've got two more planned after that, and that'll take us through the second movie. So, yeah. Questions, comments, concerns? Y'all are awesome; please to leave some thoughts in the little box below. Thanks! _


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